Bringing Up Baby
by jam-bafta-tesco-kitten
Summary: Sherlock goes to a crime scene without John one night and finds a small baby whose parents have been murdered. He panics and takes it home without telling anybody, and he and John are left to care for it, neither of whom have any experience with babies.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock left the crime scene as the last of the police cars pulled away, a very small baby wrapped safely in the right flap of his long coat. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and was about to send a text to John when he realized that texting while trying to hold a baby may not work very well. Instead, he pulled off his glove and dialed John's number. He picked up after one ring. Sherlock sighed as he looked at the child.

"I've found a baby at a crime scene and I need help," he told John, seeing no need to add anything extra to his statement. "I went without you. A young couple was murdered. I don't think the killer saw any need to murder the child as it couldn't act as a witness and would probably die on its own anyway." He heard John sigh and take a moment to think before replying.

"Bring it back to Baker Street, I guess. We'll feed it and bathe it and I can look it over. How old is it?"

"I'm not sure exactly. Very small, not speaking. Maybe a few months old. I'll look up the mother's records in the morning. The heat was off in the house though, and the scene was quite a bit outside the city. We think it's been about 20 hours since the murder, so it hasn't been fed since then. It's got a bit of a fever." Sherlock jumped in a cab that had stopped for him and lay the baby on its legs, one hand behind its small head. The baby stared at him, bright blue eyes sparkling with tears as it realized he was not its father. Slowly it began to cry. He tried to shush it, but after a couple failed attempts, he gave up, deciding John would take care of it in a few minutes' time.

"Is 'it' a boy or a girl?"

"Girl. I'll take care of her until I get home, then you can take over from there, how about that?"

"Fine," John said, calming down. "Try not to be yourself please, I don't want her upset before you even get home. I don't want Mrs. Hudson to panic, I've just gotten her over her flu."

"She's making horrible sounds, John, and I don't know why. She's not injured, I've checked."

"How do you know she's not ill?"

"Her skin is a normal color and she's not dehydrated. The fever is too mild to upset her." There was a pause as Sherlock continued to check for other sources of agitation. "...Oh."

"Yes?

"John?"

"What?"

"Do you know how to change a nappy?"


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Okay I'm really sorry that took so long. There are only a few of you who read this but whatever you still exist. I just got caught up in... stuff? Idk. Life happens. Enjoy my lovelies.

* * *

Sherlock's cab pulled up to the flat and he paid the driver. "You're going to have to take it inside." He told him. Sherlock sighed and nodded. "Yes, I know. Thank you." He carefully picked up the bloodstained baby and carried her inside. After much explanation, the driver had finally understood the situation and accepted that the blood was not, in fact, the baby's. She had stopped crying sometime between Wandsworth and Chelsea Harbour and she was now quiet, but she had a look of displeasure on her tiny face. John was seated in his chair and he quickly handed her over, wiping his hands on his coat as if to get rid of something. "Can you take care of…that?" He asked him. The baby looked curiously up at John and grabbed his nose.

John had been slightly annoyed at Sherlock's incompetency regarding the child, but as soon as he looked into her bright blue eyes, he forgot all about it, laughing as he pulled her hand away. "Can you please go into the kitchen and fetch some yoghurt? I think it's the closest thing we have to baby food, and it'll just have to do until we can get to the store tomorrow. I'm going to clean her off."

John had always been slightly more tender than Sherlock. John didn't have to worry about who he may hurt, so burning bridges was no concern of his. He understood why Sherlock couldn't take care of the small girl, and realised that she would be his responsibility, at least until he could train Sherlock enough that he could watch her when John was at work. He looked at her, softening his expression, and whispered quietly, "What happened to you, love?" He stroked her soft pink cheek, and she cooed in response. He stood up and headed towards the bathroom.

John cradled her in the crook of his right arm, and used his left to push the bathroom door open and start the water running in the bathtub. Despite having completed 10 years of medical training, nobody had ever taught him how to bathe a baby, and he wasn't around them much; his stint working in the maternity ward had been a brief one. What if she got water in her mouth and choked? What if the water was too hot for her thin, translucent skin? What if? He let the water run for a minute before pulling off her onesie and nappy and setting her down in the tub. As he gently scrubbed away the layers of dried blood, the water took on a crimson tinge. "You poor, poor child. What are you going to do without your mummy and daddy? A state home is no place for a baby as pretty as you."

She looked up at him, and her precious eyes seemed to be searching for an answer from him. "Why," he saw. "Why?" His heart gave a tug. "I don't know. Terrible things happen, sometimes for no reason at all. I promise I will help you, though. We'll find you somebody to stay with who takes good care of you." He washed the soap off her, let the water drain, and dried her off. Having no nappies or clean pyjamas for her, he wrapped her in the thick towel and carried her into the kitchen, placing her in his lap as he sat down at the table.

Sherlock picked up his head and fought to compose himself for John. He saw that his friend was becoming attached to the child and this did not concern him as much as he would have thought. He watched them fondly. John seemed at ease with the baby, as if he had done this before. He was a soldier, and that conjured a certain image, but it did not match his doctor. He wasn't hard, or rough. He was gentle and tender, but so strong. It warmed his heart as he looked, but then he remembered and startled out of reverie, handing over the yoghurt and a small spoon. "She's looking better." He offered, nodding approvingly before returning to the sink to wash his hands.

He watched the blood run down the drain and he sighed, rubbing his eyes. He remembered the crime scene, walking into the room where the young couple had been brutally murdered, and opening the closet to find the tiny child. Something had kicked in and he had picked her up and left with her. He didn't say a word to anyone, knowing what he was doing would not be allowed. He had felt the urge to shelter and protect which was new to him, and it was very confusing. He didn't understand it and that frustrated him.

John laid the girl down on the table, rolling a bit of towel under her head so he didn't hurt her, then picked up the yoghurt and spoon from Sherlock and set it on the table as well. "Thank you," he told Sherlock as he unwrapped the towel. She didn't like having the warmth taken from her so quickly and began to cry, the sound coming out in shrill sobs. He stroked her fine hair back from her face saying, "It's all right, just a moment. I just want to make sure you're all healthy." He went to his bedroom and retrieved his medical kit, returning quickly. Eager to let the girl eat, he ran through the regular tests quickly, checking her eyes, pressing on her stomach, and listening to her heart and lungs. Remembering Sherlock's comment about her fever, he pulled a thermometer out of the bag and took her temperature; it registered 99.8. He crushed half a paracetamol into her yoghurt, hoping it would bring the fever down quickly, and wrapped her back in the blanket.

Sherlock watched John as he went through all the tests he had deemed necessary, doing his job quickly but thoroughly. An army doctor indeed. Watching John work mesmerised Sherlock in a way only possible when watching somebody do something you find to be very difficult.

John picked up the spoon and started to feed the girl; she ate ravenously. "How long has it been since someone's fed you?" he wondered aloud. She finished the yoghurt and he set the cup and spoon on the table, right as she started to cry. She was clean and fed, which meant the only other option was fatigue. "I think she's tired," he said to Sherlock. "Where is she supposed to sleep?"

"I suppose she'll just have to sleep with one of us. We've not got any other choices, have we?"

Sherlock shrugged at him. "I guess so. Would you like to take her? You seem to be much better with her than I am."

John nodded, stood up, and picked up the girl. "Yes, that's fine. We'll have to see if we can track down some grandparents or something in the morning. We can't keep her forever." He sighed as he looked at her face, all pink and screwed up from her sobbing. He rubbed one thumb over her cheek softly, not really knowing what else to do. "Shh, it's alright, sweetheart. You're safe," he cooed as he carried her into his bedroom. He set her on the bed, one pillow on either side, and changed into his own pyjamas. He slid between the covers and adjusted his pillow, a spare from the closet; her crying stopped and her breathing steadied as he made soothing noises, soon falling asleep himself.


End file.
